How quickly our days are spun and spent
like the string of a kite
caught on an updraft,
the spool held in loose hands,
spinning fast and faster.
To slow the spinning
is to stop the climb–exultant, liberating.
To wind the string back onto the spool
is to move backward, to sink, to stunt.
How should I live these unraveled days?
How can I rise and yet
come back down?
The spool, its frenzied turning,
burning my hands.
I am afraid.
The days spin on, uncounted, uncontrolled,
but soon, before I know,
the string will catch,
the spool will slow.
Oh help me live these kite-string days!
Truly live them, spinning and wild,
and I, a breathless child
with burning palms and
will hold on lightly, lightly.
I will trust the wind that carries me
to the place where earth and heaven overlap;
knowing the string, however long, is short,
and, once spent, will surely snap.